


The One Gift that Wade “Cry-Baby” Walker Plans to Give Allison for Valentine’s Day

by flutter



Category: Cry-Baby
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-15
Updated: 2006-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:21:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flutter/pseuds/flutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Cry-Baby, a 1990 John Waters movie.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The One Gift that Wade “Cry-Baby” Walker Plans to Give Allison for Valentine’s Day

**Author's Note:**

> Cry-Baby, a 1990 John Waters movie.

A Drape may be stupid, but they’re not necessarily dumb. Or that’s what Cry-Baby thinks since he can tool motorcycles and understands the complexities beneath the hood of his Jalopy. The mechanics of such things require a certain type of smart and, if he’s forced to, he could use it to make an honest living. If that’s what Allison wanted, that is. Because Cry-Baby would much rather continue stealing, and living on the thin edge of Wrong and Right, then serving the Squares he’s spent his entire life hating.  
  
Allison hasn’t said anything about how he earns his money. Allison hasn’t said much at all since the night she fell into his arms, completely his. That was the night he played Chicken against her ex-beau; the night he won both the game and, without any more hesitation from her, the girl. No more of her invoking the “I can’t, I’m an orphan, and if we, you know, have intercourse, then I’ll feel as if I’ve sullied their name, but Cry-Baby, oh, your _hands_.”   
  
And she was his—just as his bike was his, and his music was his, and he, well, he was hers. The tear tattoo said as much—“This one’s for Allison, and I want it to last"—didn’t it?   
  
She fell beneath him within seconds of every visit, sullying her parents name each time she let him slide her tight slacks further, and each time she let him slip into _her_. And when the heat of their bodies created electric shocks that shivered up his spine, he knew she pretended she didn’t feel him shudder from it; the haunting of his own orphaned nightmares, of electric chairs and the alphabet screamed in the night, causing him to curl against, and into, her.  
  
So, love. He realized he had fallen the moment she faced his friends and sister in front of Turkey Point. And now here he was, in the front yard of his Grandmother’s home, sweating over a stream of heat as he reshaped the left front panel of a ’51 Olds his nephew and uncle stole. He switched between hammer, blowtorch, and gloved hand, touching the curve of the panel, sweeping over the hood of the car. He wanted to give her something of her own, something from him and worth having.   
  
He had it repainted a week later, with the help of Dupree and Melvin, the colors Allison loved. Where the main body of the Oldsmobile had been a light blue, he and the boys had painted it the brightest white they could steal. Where the side panels and doors previously showed no sign of accent, now gleamed silver molding. Pink, a dusky pearled pink, shone between the molding strips in a curl that ran the length of the car.  
  
Cry-Baby walked around the car, softly rubbing a cloth over the body, leaving shine behind his wake. The car looked like her—not _like_ her, but it would fit her Scrape (“Part Square, part Drape,” Pepper had called her) image, and she would love it.  
  
The final touch, one of the hundred license plates he pressed while in the Reform School (“ALLISON”), was screwed into the back of the car.


End file.
